Hero Made of Clay
by EmbracingYourFreak
Summary: Clay can be a solid, sturdy fortress. It can also be reduced to bits of ceramic. Everything depends on the surrounding elements.


Yes, another one. This is probably going to be the hardest to write, but I'll see it through till the end.

--

America hated assumptions.

One who assumes that something is true based on past events has every right to feel the way they feel - especially if those past events were drawn out for years at a time. To expect that person to think differently after the constant effects the years wrought would simply be ignorant and more than a bit foolhardy. But the recognition of this rationality didn't suppress the prickles of something pressed and tingled just below the outer layer of flesh (_Just where I can't reach it, where I can't carve it out, I hate it, I want it gone -_) when a nation commented on the ridiculous qualities of his newest plans. And contrary to popular belief, he wasn't oblivious to how truly _idiotic_ some of his presentations seemed.

On the contrary; he was painfully aware.

Being the youngest among nations gave the impression of wide-eyed optimism and naivete, and in his earlier years he readily accepted those terms as he barreled into life, soaking up every detail he could out of his surroundings in sheer _excitement_. He was the nation of liberty and equality for those who'd gone without; a nation that offered freedom for people who'd been starved for opportunity and promise. And for a happy three hundred years he settled into the mindset of blind heroism and something that he was too adamant in his ways to admit brushed along ignorance.

But decades dragged by and wars raged on, forcing the youthful optimism from his eyes bit by bit with every dollar that ticked his debt count ever higher. His people were scrambling for answers to problems that dangled over his head (_It's a noose, it's going to hang me, leave me swinging from the rafters and they'll find me, they'll laugh._). So while he held onto the strong values of justice that he had been founded upon, he found himself shedding his childlike beliefs of a utopian world with heroes and happily ever afters as a snake would its skin, leaving them dead and shriveling in his footsteps.

The other nations didn't accept this change readily, though. He had attempted to bring options to the table that were accessible and attainable, _actual_ ideas that weren't conjured from an overactive imagination and idiotic hopefulness. Spreadsheets were made, PowerPoint presentations were given; _real_ _work_ was put into each element, tedious amounts of effort that he found that he was happy to put in, if only for the a look of approval and acknowledgement.

But assumptions are relentless.

Humans are judgmental beings; they flock to the familiar and appraised those around them with a biased eye. And assumptions are very much a part of judgment. They're set ways of thinking; trains of thought that are formed by what the viewer analyzes and gathers from what they can on the exterior. Time carries on, and the assumptions consolidate, compacting and gathering into something solid and impassable by the subject of scrutiny; a brick wall in the face of the truth. And as much as nations aren't exactly mortal, they carry enough human traits to pass as one.

So when the others were confronted with a reformed America, the reactions were true to their human counterparts - hardly encouraging.

Accusations meshed with barks of laughter, and more than a few dubious glares were sent to a silent, confounded country. He attempted to reason, to assure them that these were _his_ ideas, _his_ beliefs and _work_ that scrawled out across the conference table before the riled nations. But this only spurred them further, prompting accusations of fraudulence from a vehement few and sharp scoffs of disbelief around the room. Anger and hurt licked at his stomach with white hot tongues, slithering and lapping up into his chest until he was sure the chest cavity would burst, (_he'd _burst) in the agony and outrage of it all.

Through the chaos of noise and emotion, he managed to rein himself into something close to coherent, nodding his defeat and leaving the room with a stilted smile and limbs that moved with mechanical precision. The young nation only vaguely remembered the events preceding his exit; he found that he liked it best that way.

So day after day, the knife would run smoothly through his flesh, leaving a fine crimson line in its wake. Coppery filth would bubble over, dribbling down from the cleft of tissue and into another, creating a chain reaction that was so incredibly _fascinating_ to America. The pain was temporary and the marks would quickly fade; but the beauty of red swirls on a canvas of skin was too tantalizing to deny and there was release (_Beautiful, wonderful release, watch the itch pour out, watch it leave down the drain._). There was no judgement to be passed by the blade that sliced with wonderful accuracy and care, severing and rending and destroying and _freeing_. It was easy to be lost in the sensory overload.

America realized that these actions weren't particularly ones that were made in the name of justice and heroism. He was aware of the brand of cowardice that trailed behind every downstroke. He knew that the bite of metal and the warmth that streamed from new orifices shouldn't be something to be in awe of or relish. And as much as he acknowledged these facts, the boiling anger coaxed the steel that glittered so _invitingly_ down his stomach and legs and arms; over every bit of exposed flesh he could offer because he was _mad_ and the pinpricks beneath his skin needed to be _released_ and this made everything _alright_.

With the maddening itch liberated to the outside world and wounds cleaned (most already closed), he could persuade himself once again to walk into a room full of fellow nations and smile as he presented his long-winded speech of space cows being humanity's saviors from sexually transmitted disease. He laughed off the derisive comments and shrugged at the whispers that he _knew_ would carry the ridicule that the presentation honestly deserved. But the fact that they assumed that those words were all that he was capable of amounting to fed the prickling buzz to intensify and fester until it was all he could do to stay seated and keep his calm exterior rather than rip away at his torso with fingernails and pens.

He could wait. He could wait until tonight.

--

And that was the prologue. I will offer this bit of information up - this is not a stereotypical cutter fic. This goes deeper.


End file.
